Brad Thor - State Of The Union

He ordered a small, open-faced sandwich and a bottle of mineral water at the counter and then chose one of the few remaining empty tables. He slid his chair around so that he could sit with his back to the wall and after marking where all the exits were, pulled the Friday edition of theSt. Petersburg Times out of his backpack and set it to the left of his tray as he’d been instructed. It was now time to wait.

As he ate his sandwich, Harvath alternated between gazing out of the large windows that looked out onto the central courtyard of the Winter Palace, and studying the faces of the other patrons in the café. The museum was packed today and the selection of the café, with its high ceilings, stone floor and attendant ambient noise, was an inspired choice for a rendezvous. Even if someone had wanted to listen in on a surreptitious conversation, it would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible.

Harvath kept watching the faces of people as they entered and exited the café. When Alexandra Ivanova finally arrived, it was nearly impossible not to notice her. She was even more stunning than her photograph.

As she moved across the room, one of the first things Harvath noticed was her height. He put her at around five-foot-eight, maybe taller, but with the boots she had on it was hard to tell. They came to just about mid-calf and were only the beginning of her outfit. She wore winter leggings and a short skirt, which did little to disguise her very attractive, long legs. A tight, ribbed sweater was partially exposed beneath a heavy shearling coat, and to finish it all off, she had on a pair of funky frameless purple sunglasses and a tan crocheted cap that looked like it had come from an ABBA revival concert, beneath which her blond hair hung in two long braids.

Not exactly subtle, thought Harvath as she came up to the table, but there was no way a woman this good-looking could disguise how attractive she was.

“It appears as if you are alone,” said Ivanova. “May I join you?”

“With over three million works of art in this museum, I would hardly consider myself alone, but you are welcome to sit down,” replied Harvath, using the phrase he’d been given to establish his bona fides with Ivanova.

“Unfortunately, only a small percentage of it is ever on display at one time,” she returned, setting her tray next to Harvath’s and taking a seat. “This is a museum you need to come back to over and over again to really appreciate.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Harvath, their bona fides now established. “You’re late.”

“I was busy.”

“Busy with what?”

“That’s none of your concern,” answered Alexandra. “I don’t have all day, so let’s, as you Americans say,get to the point.”

There are very few things in the world as pleasing to the ear as English spoken by a Russian woman. The experience is made doubly enjoyable if the woman in question is as attractive as Alexandra Ivanova.

Because of her very appealing accent, Harvath could almost forgive her for being so rude. Almost.

“I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from something,” replied Scot, the condescension apparent in his voice. “I’ll do my best to keep this short.”

Ivanova simply nodded her head with disinterest and began to blow on her tea.

“I need your help. There’s information your father may have had that could-”

“After all these years, the Americans have decided he is once again a viable source,” she responded, glaring over the top of her teacup. “I’ll be happy to give you the address where you can find him, though he’s not much of a conversationalist anymore.”

Harvath could tell where this was going and did his best to diffuse the situation. “Listen, I can see that you’re upset-”

“No, you listen to me. You have no idea how I feel or what my father went through because of you people.”

“Maybe I don’t, but that was the world your father was living in. Double dealing in intelligence is a tricky business.”

Alexandra set her teacup down. “You make it sound as if somehow he was disloyal. Every single thing he did was for the good of his country. You people sold him out.”

“Sold him out?What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Your intelligence services cut him loose and then leaked to the KGB that he had been cooperating with them.”

“That’s ridiculous. We never would have done that. That’s not our style. We don’t reward people that way,” said Harvath.

“The KGB could never officially prove it, but somehow they knew what he had done and they punished him for it anyway. You say the leak didn’t come from your side. Why should I believe you?”

“Because I told you, that’snot how we do business.”

“You’re a liar.”

God, the woman was an ice princess. “Hey, I’m not the guy you’ve got an axe to grind with. You don’t even know me.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” replied Scot.

“Scot Harvath. Former internationally ranked U.S. Freestyle Ski Team member who quit the circuit shortly after his father’s death. You left to study political science and military history at the University of Southern California, where you graduatedcum laude before joining the navy and passing selection to become a SEAL. After postings to both Teams Two and Six, also known as Dev Group, you were recruited to the Secret Service to help improve White House operations and presidential security. Your current posting is unknown.”

Harvath was floored. “How the hell do you know all that?”

“I keep very good track of people who have crossed me, Agent Harvath.”

“Crossed you? I haven’t crossed you. I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t?” asked Ivanova, fluttering her eyelashes. The move was not at all flirtatious. It was inappropriate and meant to be insulting.

“Believe me,” replied Scot, trying to remain calm and not rise to the bait, “if our paths had crossed, I would have remembered it.”

“Do you remember Istanbul?” she asked. “Five years ago. A prominent American businessman and his family taken hostage?”

Of course he remembered,but how could she know about it?

The scenes came rushing back. Harvath was with SEAL Team Six at the time and had been put in charge of the ransom exchange. He showed up with what the kidnappers assumed was the money, but in reality was an H amp;K MP5K submachine gun covertly mounted inside a briefcase with the firing mechanism incorporated into the handle.

The expressions of shock and surprise on the kidnappers’ faces had barely had a chance to register before Harvath took out every last one of them. They had never seen it coming. When the rest of Harvath’s team stormed the building, there was nothing left for them to do but help escort the businessman and his family safely back to the U.S. Embassy.

“What’s this all about?” Harvath asked the woman.

“I was stationed in Istanbul.”

As well as London and Hong Kong, Harvath remembered from Rick Morrell’s briefing. “So?”

“So the kidnappers you took out were part of an arms ring we were investigating, who were responsible for smuggling heavy weaponry to several rebel groups in the Caucasus.”

“So?”

“They were the middle men. They were going to put us next to the ones running the organization, but you killed them.”

“Sorry,” said Harvath, turning his palms upwards.

“I was in charge of that investigation.”

“Sorry, again,” replied Scot.

“We had an agent on the inside and you killed him.”

Harvath had had no idea. His recent disaffection with the Russians notwithstanding, the fact that he had killed an innocent man did not sit well with him. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. But by the same token, what the hell was he doing mixed up with a kidnapping? He should have known better. He shouldn’t have been there when the exchange went down.”